Days of the past

Days of the past like days of the last minutes before the end of the world like the tail of a lizard that detaches itself like an old Buddhist monk walking their way on plains up a mountain on which rise and set suns and moons and the stars in every direction east or west on the arms of a wind-vane rooster monsters rowdy ways that they spend their days by and in large numbers yawning as they walk and go marching down the streets of musicians playing accordions according to the rules laid down by gatekeepers and watchmen of the guardians of the galaxy of planets and stars and asteroids with hand grenades of rolling wheelchairs and sleeping wheels of slipping time and slippery fins of fish that breathe bubbles of water and thin walls of soap arresting libraries and multiple shelves of books in the imaginary library that exists in seventeen dimensions and brushes of watercolour and oil paints painting scenes of the natural world photographs with water-bottles and lids lifting the cups of gold and silver in hand fans imported from Japanese windscreens and little tables of wood and bamboo flutes and beasts roaming around in forest notebooks with signatures of window shades and towels dripping letters of alphabets in seventy-three different languages talking writing dancing singing songs bringing down old clouds of silk and cotton bulk from the lofty lofts of the upper floor leveling up in elevators of large glass boxes and books and pens, pencils and feather pens